


A Tale of a Journey

by Susamo



Series: A Knight of Arkon in 1149 [7]
Category: Perry Rhodan - Various Authors
Genre: Atlan Adventure in time, F/M, The Knight of Arkon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:14:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26747899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Susamo/pseuds/Susamo
Summary: On his journey into Wales, Atlan da Gonozal takes up the role of a harper who would sing at fairs. His faithful wife and his retainer-Alexandra of Lancaster and Gromell the Fletcher-are accompanying him. After a peaceful start, matters turn to worse. They encounter a burning manor and Norman brutality...Elsewhere, matters develop as well, and a ritual is performed.
Relationships: Atlan da Gonozal/Alexandra of Lancaster
Series: A Knight of Arkon in 1149 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1938052
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	A Tale of a Journey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Palatinedreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palatinedreams/gifts).



> Caesar condemned the Celtic Druids for the human sacrifices they took and the bloody and evil rituals they performed. His book about the War in Gaul was a nice piece of propaganda, as we know, to excuse him to the Senate and the people of Rome about that war which he was neither authorized to start nor, officially by the res publica of Rome, allowed to wage, at least at the start. The Druids were the elite of their people, spiritually and concerning education and knowledge, and he aimed at destroying them first to have the Celts lose one of the main pillars of their society. Sadly, Caesar succeeded, and we have little left to us of genuine knowledge about the Celtic Druids and true Celtic society of the olden times. That survived in Ireland and in Wales to the Middle Ages, in Scotland and Brittany somewhat longer, and upon the Isle of Man, with modern society, to the present day, with Christianity making an end of Celtic religion and druidism where the Romans had not done so yet from the fifth century onward. That the Celts could be conquered by the Romans so relatively easily also has to do with their ceaseless internal strife, in Gaul no less than in Britain, and with the fact that the Druids refused to put down their learning in writing. They believed in learning and studying by heart, which made for great minds and admirable memories. But once a druid was killed and his knowledge was lost, there was no regaining what he had known. The Romans saw to that with their attack at the Isle of Mona, what is modern Anglesey.  
> That the Druids were not evil or performed bloody rituals every day we know nowadays. Roman critique upon that account is hypocritical to the extreme. That the Romans no longer sacrificed humans to their Gods in historical times is true, but their gladiator fights derived from sacrificial ritual at the burial of ancient chiefs, and the humans who died in that ritual turned spectacle during centuries of Roman culture number in the hundreds of thousands.
> 
> Human sacrifice offered by druids as such, though, has been proved by archaeology, for example, at the newly excavated town from Celtic times in Lower Austria, called the Sandy Hill. Those sacrifices were very few, though, and occurred at very special occasions like the building and installment of an important temple, where a human sacrifice was buried beneath the foundations. It is even not a sure thing, because the skeleton might belong to a chieftain or a holy person laid to rest there naturally, and the temple built on top of him, as it is known from bronze age settlements in Croatia, for example. The burial of the warrior guard at the foundation pillar, who was a documented sacrifice, is known from the stone age and bronze age Crete and was wide-spread in the thinking of our far-removed ancestors, and not special to druidism. Royal sacrifices were sent to the Gods to ask for mercy for the people in famine time or in times of national danger when war threatened and the Gods' counsel was begged for. Of those, we have proof in bogs and marshes. So, though Caesar was not a total liar regarding the Celtic druids, we can dismiss his hypocritical propaganda for what it was. But at least, it makes for great inspiration for a nice story!
> 
> The sacrifice of babies and children is well-documented in human history as well, for example, among Indian cultures in Meso-America. It is the dearest gift men can give to their Gods, hoping for the greatest reward and return gift, and was no great loss if you were not the mother or the father of the child. Since children died so often and easily in ancient times and there were no contraceptive measures, one could hope to have another child very soon.  
> That the fairies were thought to steal babies and leave a changeling in their place is a very common sujet in Britain and Ireland. The Christian church told the people that the fairies, in fact the old gods, were of the devil and could not breed naturally. So they had to steal human children to have any at all! Sadly, many sickly children must have fallen victim to superstitions like these. Of course, it fits in most nicely again with Caesar's war propaganda of druidic sacrifice!
> 
> In addition, Irish myth tells in truth that Tethra, when he was alive and the king of the Fomorians, and not yet slain and passed into the otherworld as its ruler, demanded a heavy tribute of his subdued enemies: their newborn children and two-thirds of the milk they had from their cattle, and other goods.

A Tale of a Journey

Gromell, who had spent a restful night in the straw of the stables and had enjoyed a few nice games with other squires and grooms was careful to knock at his master’s door before he went in. But a brisk and cheerful voice bade him enter.

The knight from Arkon was already up and had dressed in simple garb fit for traveling while the mistress-this she was now, having married his master-was in her shift and vigorously brushed her hair.

“As discussed, here are proper riding clothes for a lady”, the young Saxon said and piled the garments up on a stool. There had been no time to go to a tailor and have dresses made for Alexandra. But the earl’s wife had gowns enough of which she could spare one or two, she had said, and since she was almost as tall as the newly-wedded lady she could make a wedding gift out of them for her.

So she had done, and the young woman at least had the beginnings of a proper wardrobe to herself.

“Tailors cost time, and one must shop for fabrics first”, she sighed. “As we must journey to Wales without delay we do not have time for a tailor to do his needlework. That will have to wait till Carlisle. At least I have one festive dress. We will be moving on, so at the next noble house I will look as well-dressed without anyone commenting upon me wearing the same dress all the time.”

Atlan looked up frowning from lacing his boots. “That will not do. I will order clothes made for you by my servants. The falcon can bring them to us once they are ready.”

Startled Alexandra met his gaze, pressed her fingers to her mouth, and then laughed a little. 

“I believe that I will have to get used to such matters from now on”, she said, and then cocked her head, her eyes beginning to sparkle. “Is it perhaps possible to have your tailor sewing a bodice lined with silk for me? Perhaps stitched with little flowers? I know that that will take time and is a lot of work, but at Carlisle, I could already wear it, couldn’t I? And perhaps a pair of shoes made of satin, and one of sturdy leather. The boots you gave me are good for riding in the woods, but with me having to ride side-saddle and dressed properly like a lady again the boots look odd at least in town. I will need something to change into when we come near to places where I should look respectable.”

Wordlessly the Arkonide stared at his wife who blushed under his gaze. “Am I too immodest, perhaps?” she asked in a smaller voice. “I do not need a silk-lined gown, of course. Plaited linen will do as nicely and perhaps is more comfortable to wear. But the shoes-I am afraid that I will need the shoes. The festive pair I had was almost ruined by our flight from Surrey and his men, and I had to work hard to make them look good enough for yesterday. But they are nearly falling apart, and else I have but these boots...”

Alexandra’s voice trailed off. Atlan walked up to her and kissed her hand.

“Forgive me, my love”, he said simply. “I had planned to go shopping with you in Hereford, but that was cut short by the plans we had to make else. Of course, you need shoes and gowns, shifts, and everything else a lady has use of. You have not even complained of not having a comb of your own or a proper ladies’ coat. I am sorry. I should have seen to getting you a proper wardrobe and everything else far sooner.”

She smiled. “I think that there was little time for you to do that yet, my love. The day before yesterday we spent our afternoon respectively in the castle dungeon and upon the altar steps of the priory, and yesterday we had our wedding. Before that, I had no idea yet whom I was riding with, and you hardly could have had the falcon bring me a bundle of clothes! But since we do not have time to wait for a tailor to sew gowns for me while we are traveling, and I am to look good as a proper wife of a nobleman at the places we are to go, I think your plan to have your servants sew a gown or two for me a very good one. Where-how does the tailor take my measures? Is he a human man, or-?”

Oh, Gods. He would have to give his wife a lot of instructions and hypno courses, the Arkonide saw. After Carlisle. Gromell would need instruction too. He looked all comfortable with what he had heard and had nodded a few times with Alexandra’s words. Of course, these two had perfectly human ideas about how things were done. And none about how an Arkonide conducted his affairs.

“He isn’t. It’s enough for Falco or Arrow to look at you to take your measures-they have already done so. And now let me give a few orders to my servants. By tomorrow we will have our goods delivered to us.”

Sotto voce Atlan rattled off a long list of items into the wrist com and heard Rico acknowledge. At least he did not have to think long on what a lady might need. By now he knew that well; and they had pack horses enough with the three animals they had taken from their pursuers. The two beasts could carry a lot more than what they did now.

“Thank you, my love.” The young woman stepped up to her lord husband and gave him a kiss he changed into a long and deep one, embracing her. She emerged breathless and flushed, her eyes sparkling and glowing with excitement.

“Oh, I am so curious to see what your tailor will make for me! One day-that is too short a time for a human tailor. I gather it that your servants have magical abilities too to have them work swifter than a human can-?”

The Arkonide grinned. “You have no idea, my love. I will have to explain a lot to you in times to come, as I can see. For now, allow yourself to be surprised tomorrow morning. So, let’s pack up and leave after breakfast. We must be on our way.”

So they had to. The letters had to be delivered as swiftly as possible, and then-there was no need to linger till Poins of Lancaster arrived at Hereford, where he was bound to come sooner or later. As well, he would be looking for a knight-but a minstrel would be riding out of Hereford today with his wife and his retainer, any knight’s armour and equipment missing from his gear. The harp, though, rode prominently at the side in its leather satchel and drew glances from the passers-by from the very start.

Long chain-mail shirt and hauberk, helmet and chain-mail-hose, padded short coat and gauntlets of chain-mail and leather could be concealed in a pack, that was true. But the weight and the bulk would be telling, and then neither shield nor lance could be hidden or carried in a way that would not give him away as a traveling knight. So Atlan had but kept his bow and arrows and the Saracen sword, the two long knives, and the Dagor staff pushed together appearing as a simple rod, which officially he would carry as a Chung-kuo Taoist Gun, a fighting staff, and so he rode out in less martial attire and garb than he had before. Roger Fitzmiles, the earl of Hereford, had promised to bring his new ally’s knight’s gear to Carlisle to give it back to him there and then when they would meet once more-when young Henry Fitzempress would be present at Carlisle too. 

The road into Wales by Kington proved to be well-traveled, and while there were few Norman or English people going this way on this morning there were enough Welshmen, speaking their soft and sing-song language which Gromell could not understand in the least.

But his master, who called himself his friend, and his lady could. They greeted the people they met and were greeted back in just such a friendly manner, with curiosity so open it was inoffensive and real enthusiasm when the travelers realized they had met a minstrel.

So before long, the great Celtic knee-harp was taken out of its satchel and the minstrel had propped up his leg to let her rest comfortably in his lap and had begun to play. Under the somewhat dashing cap of moderate dark-green felt the white hair flowed out in a lively wave, and the fir-green knee-long over-tunic showed neat stitching at the sleeves, the hem, and the slit collar, showing off the longer tight-fitting white shirt. Dark brown hose and high practical boots of leather completed the moderate but still nicely colorful outfit of a harper who was traveling to get his places to sing and his fees, a man who had to keep to the practical side while he still had to avoid looking dull or drab. His wife and retainer had clothes as good and not too worn, which proved to the listeners that the man entertaining them was welcome at many places and that his music and his singing were as welcome and well appreciated by the masters of the houses and the manors, and perhaps even of the castles where he might perform.

At the start, it was instrumental pieces the harper played, cheerful and lively melodies dancing along the way with other travelers on foot soon clapping and marching along to them. Then a flask of sour but refreshing ale was passed up to the black horse’s rider by a man who looked like a well-to-do merchant, who offered a good drink for a nice song sung on the way, and hadn’t he never heard better even at the richest fairs!

Atlan smiled mischievously at the man who hadn’t noticed that he had no fair-traveling harper but a true minstrel before him who would rather go to a prince’s court than a merchant’s booth, and nevertheless took up the harp and started off a funny retelling of a dispute between a wolf and a fox, and a piece of fowl they were both after.  
Of course, he sang it in Welsh and took the effort to add a few details that identified the fox with a Welshman while the wolf easily could be called a Norman noble, and had the trader company clapping and laughing along in no time.

Bemusedly the young Saxon squire watched the performance. The clever and world-wise courtier who had dealt with the Earl of Hereford was gone, and so was the fierce knight who would face thirty men with but one man at his side, coolly shooting down one attacker after the other. This was a jolly singer who would travel from fair to fair or sing in taverns for the coppers the people threw him and ate what the landlord would offer him. His woman would perhaps dance to his music, or at least sing, playing a tambourine-yes, now my lady joined the game and sang the chorus with her husband, adding her light and joyful voice to his deep and expressive one. That these two had a retainer and were dressed in good clothes made well-to-do ones of their profession out of them, people who would be invited to a country noble’s manor as well as to merchant’s houses.  
Hooting the audience received the victory of the fox and demanded another song, this one a fairy tale, please.

The Arkonide’s eyes sparkled with amusement. He wasn’t above amusing himself with making private jokes on the humans who of course had no idea why a story of otherworldly magic should hold some special fun for the harper. 

So he raised Clarsah once more and gave the people walking along with the slow pace of their horses the adventure where Gwydion the great otherworldly magician was duping his sister Arianrhod with fith-faths while he got for Llew Llaw his nephew what the boy needed from his mother’s funds, as well as the name which she had denied him before.  
This was a well-known and famous part of the Mabinogion, and Atlan sang the popular and simple, folk-like version, not the original verse he had heard when he had learned of this story the first time, many hundreds of years ago by now.

The people walking with the troubadour, listening to his singing and clapping along with his music, had become quite a crowd. Entertainment like this on the road was hard to come by else. They had passed Credenhill at mid-morning and had reached Yazor in the late morning, hoping to come to Woonton sometime in the afternoon. So when the company came to St.John the Baptist’s church at Yazor they decided to have a little break in the adjacent field at the well and the smooth stones set there for the purpose. 

The Arkonide, his wife, and his friend did not have to unpack and eat of their own supply. Everyone offered something as a gift back for the music; sweet apples from last autumn, bread rolls with wild garlic baked in, and some good ham to go with them, sweet raisin cakes and honey-mead in a flask were but a little of what was offered.

Atlan, Alexandra, and Gromell gladly partook of the good meal, and the minstrel had the others share with each other instead of heaping him with “ what I cannot eat in a week, thank you, good people!”, though he pocketed the raisin cakes and the apples quite readily. Good provisions need not be disdained when they came from open hearts.

Alexandra had let her husband help her down from her horse, but then matter-of-factly she took over her housewife’s duties like lighting a small fire to roast sausages in and preparing a cosy place for her husband to sit and rest for a short time while she fetched water from the well and refilled the water flasks and Gromell saw to the needs of the horses-just as they had distributed chores when they had traveled alone and there had been no word yet of the proper lady she had to appear as. The young lady of Lancaster never had been pampered or dainty. Her father and she never had lived in great luxury or splendour.

“Thank you. “The Arkonide smiled up at his wife and gave her a swift but sensual kiss upon her palm which made the young woman blush fiercely. She looked very becoming under the simple coyf the earl of Hereford’s wife had provided, a married wife now with her hair partly hidden by the wimple, while the glowing tresses of her hair, bound with shiny blue ribbons, framed her face like a crown. His sparkling red-eyed gaze said well enough that she was a joy to behold in his eyes, just as he had said it this morning several times, kissing his newly-wed wife. 

Then the minstrel went on tuning and seeing to his harp, stowing it away for the time, and instead started a conversation with the people around him, casually asking about what the news was in Wales and where Owain Gwynedd held court at the moment, whether there had been any word of Cadwaladr his brother out of his English exile and if Owain and Madog ap Maredudd of Powys were at odds at the moment or not.

No-one wondered about the troubadour asking about these matters. By them the safety of the roads was determined, whether one could travel safely or would have to watch out for marauding soldiers; and a man who sought places, where he could perform and earn his money, had to know such things to the nines, no less than he had to know where a patron might be found who would perhaps graciously listen and pay for good entertainment in his hall, be he nobleman or merchant or even a prince.

The merchant who had offered that flask as the first one pursed his lips and rubbed his nose.

“About Owain Gwynedd.” He said it easily, as one might speak of a high-ranking relative, someone one revered and loved but also was somewhat familiar with. “There is trouble from the north, as there is always. And from the east.”

“As there is always. I know. Ranulf of Chester, and Cadwaladr, the king’s brother.” On purpose, Atlan used the word “brenin”, “king”, to call Owain Gwynedd, who elsewhere was named Prince at best. It endeared him to the Welsh merchant on the spot, even more than his songs had done. The man beamed all over his rosy and clean-shaven round face and nodded a few times. 

“Aye, good minstrel, so it is. It is a great shame about Cadwaladr, of course. And about the kings not finding peace between them either. “A mournful look passed over his mien. 

“Myself, I am a man from just beyond the Powys border, but I pass through there every time I go home, and I have many acquaintances and friends on the way. But then, if Prince Madog must needs enter a pact with that Ranulf de Gernon, and with that Cadwaladr-as he fought at their side at Lincoln, mark you-in spite of the fact that he is married to Owain’s sister, then what is a man like me to expect? For now, Prince Madog ap Maredudd will be either at his court at Llanfair, or at Oswestry Castle, which he has gained three years ago.”

That didn’t tell anything new to the Arkonide, but the merchant perhaps could not know better, coming from England himself at the moment. He nodded encouragingly to the merchant.

“Well, and with Ranulf of Chester so set on his gains, and greedy for more, the king might have come east to keep an eye on his own. So the rumours say. There’s even a whisper he may be on this side of the Berwyns, in Cynllaith or Glyn Ceiriog, keeping a close watch on Chester and Wrexham. “

But that was news! Not to speak of the fact that this was right west of Oswestry.

“You want a guess, Arkonide-a strictly logical one?” the logic sector threw in. “Glyn Ceiriog it is, which puts Madog at Oswestry. Both of them watch Ranulf de Gernon of Chester closely, the one for the danger he poses, the other for the ally he hopes him to be. That matters are shaping up in the north can’t be a mystery to these two, either. The problem will be how you can bring both of them to the same table with Chester and Cadwaladr. Ranulf de Gernon is more important to Owain politically and strategically-his move on Mold Castle, which he took three years ago, made the Prince of Gwynedd a direct neighbour across the border to the Norman Earl. You can bet on it that outcome was intended. Personally, though-Cadwaladr is still dear to the heart of his brother, no matter how sorely he has wounded it. They have been reconciled three times now, and though Cadwaladr is in self-imposed exile at the moment, knowing that his brother would ban him officially if he had not left, Owain will be glad to see him. Provided he isn’t faced with the next act of vile treachery. My guess is-logically again-that he will receive such a blow at the first possible opportunity, judging by the character and the pattern of hare-brained action Cadwaladr up to now has displayed.”

Silently Atlan agreed. His hope was that another two major players would sit at that same table, David of Scotland and one Henry FitzEmpress, and neither would all of those contenders and would-be allies be without their retinues and their back-up, like Tayac ter Aibhlynne aiding David, Roger FitzMiles, the Earl of Hereford, supporting Henry, or he-well, helping Henry no less, while looking after the interests of the duchess of Aquitaine.

“Still a soft spot in your heart for your souzeraine of four years ago, Crystal Prince?” the logic sector jibed. The Arkonide smiled wryly.

“Not at all in such a way, as you well know, devil’s advocate”, he thought back. “She is not my Queen and sovereign now, as I am not at her court, kneeling to her and playing my harp. But she was a friend I cared for and whom I treasured, and that has not changed. Eleanor is well educated, has wit and esprit and a swift-thinking brain as well as an iron will beneath that flawless brow. She is an ideal promoter for culture and progress and even does so consciously and by her own free will. Whom else should I back, then? As well Aquitaine, and Toulouse in particular, are well-set on the way to a peaceful exchange of goods and ideas between the Muslim and the Christian cultures. Eleanor holds a key role she cannot fully play to at the French court where she is hemmed in at every step, harangued against by a miserly so-called saint who is responsible for the last wave of futile bloodshed called a crusade, and rejected by a husband who is so afraid of the alleged carnal sin that he would shun her bed. What a shame. But the Queen of my true heart whom I sing love songs to now is Alexandra, not Eleanor.”

“Well-put, newly-wed husband. See to it you get to Kington swiftly, now. Your progress as a minstrel livens up the party of the people on foot, but you are slowed. Much is at stake. Hurry, or Surrey of Mowbray might sniff out your trail and come hotfoot in pursuit. That’s what you cannot afford at all in your present role.”

Which was an unpleasant reminder, but one which might be given in time. Softly Atlan told his squire to pack up timely and got an understanding look from the merchant, who also began to prepare his next steps.

“With such a beautiful woman at your side I would as well see to it I got under shelter by daylight still, and within safe walls”, he murmured aside. “This is border country, and even if the war between Stephen and Maud seems to have come to an end, there are still a lot of brigands and lawless men about, ready to steal and kill even for the sake of a good pair of boots or a loaf of bread. Not to speak of higher born brigands in chain-mail. I’m all for marching on myself as well. “

The man took the Arkonide’s arm in farewell-with both of them grasping the other’s forearm-and politely bowed to Alexandra before he turned back to his ambler and his mules. The two retainers he had with him were already done with their work.

The other travelers might be somewhat disappointed to see the minstrel leave ahead of them, but they waved and called good wishes and nice farewells nevertheless. Atlan waved with cap in hand and mounted his stallion after he had helped up his sweet wife, and off they went in a lively canter, following the road which could not be missed now.

They made good time on this last stretch of their journey. They were past Woonton and Lyonshall by early afternoon and came to cross Offa’s dyke at the stroke of three, if there had been a church or a chapel to have a bell striking, which there was not. They had passed more than one group of travelers on the way, dust thrown up not only by booted feet or horses’ irons but also by the slow ambling of oxen drawing the carts of farmers coming up the way. There would be a market day tomorrow in Kington, they heard, and the Welsh border farmers were coming in to sell their pigs and calves and cows. Where the English were tilling the land the Welsh mostly were herders and hunters, and it showed. No Welshman, though, seemed to lack for butter or sour milk, and more than one small barrel on the oxen-drawn wagons proved that they were going to offer such at the fair.

Gromell looked about him with interest and remarked on the good meat they might get served at inns, which made his master only snort.

“Groats, Gromell”, he corrected the squire. “A lot of groats, rather likely. Though we might get them served with milk instead of with water, and there will be no dearth of butter. As to some more flavouring-if we pay well, there’ll be bacon and smoked ham, and nearer to the coast in Gwynedd, we’ll get fish in abundance. But don’t put your hopes too high. Wales is a poorer country than England, God knows. But the Welsh make up for it by their music and their storytelling.”

“Mutton stew”, Alexandra put in firmly. “Together with a lot of onions and beans and turnips. It’s what my aunt offered to me when I was small, and I liked it a lot. It has a savoury taste and isn’t so bad or poor. And groats, well-cooked, can be a better dish than some of the pap the Normans serve at their tables.”

The Arkonide grinned.

“Let us not worry, then. At the table of a king, one is served roast goose and venison pastry even in Wales. Though this time we’ll perhaps sit below the salt and only might get simpler fare.”

“A bard to be put below the salt!” Alexandra was indignant at the very suggestion. “I’ll hope the Welsh have better manners! From what my aunt told me they like a song better than a drink of wine!”

“Aye, because they like their mead better!” Atlan laughed. They were all in a very good mood. It was Sunday, people appeared friendly and peaceful, yesterday Atlan and Alexandra had had their wedding-whether everyone would recognise it as valid was another matter, of course-and the future was full of hope for success and peace.

That hopes like that could appear false the Arkonide knew too well. But upon this bright spring day, any evil seemed far away. The small town of Kington lay west of Offa’s dyke, proof that it had been Welsh territory in times gone by. The area became hilly and then on their right, to the north, the big mountain of the Great Rhos came into view. Still heavily wooded it was wild country and avoided by anyone but the hardest huntsmen, because the last dragon of Wales was said to sleep there under the stone. To contain it and the evil it might bring no less than four churches, all of them dedicated to Saint Michael, the archangel victorious against the devil, had been built around the heights of Rhos Fawr. 

Piously Alexandra crossed herself as she spoke of these four churches, and gravely Gromell followed suit. Atlan swallowed down an impious comment that at the sites of these churches holy places sacred to Lugh had stood in heathen times. The two humans accompanying him would too easily have believed in the dragon too.

The road lay open into Wales, now. Their first destination lay at Llanduw, where Alexandra’s aunt Angharad lived with her husband Sion ap Rhydderch at a manor and a grand household. The Welsh had not built castles before the Normans had introduced them to their country by force, and neither did they favour towns. Bangor, Owain Gwynedd’s capital, was an exception and had risen from a cloister of the Celtic Saint Deiniol, while his family’s seat at Aberffraw upon the Isle of Mona, or Anglesey, was little more than a village.  
Nowadays, though, after William’s conquest and Norman rule established in this region, the marcher lords had built their castles to command and hold the area, first as simple motte-and-bailey structures of wood and later in stone, mighty keeps that intimidated the people and housed dozens of horsed knights and hundreds of mail-clad guardsmen of the Norman marcher lords. The Welsh here, now under the Norman fist, had had to come to terms with their new lords, and a few had fared none so bad, profiting from larger villages and small towns, while others chafed under the iron rule of the strangers and suffered quietly-or not so quietly. Wales was a restless country, the Normans had found, and the Welsh kings had used the times of the anarchy in England well and to their purpose, fighting off the Norman yoke at many places, and regaining their sovereignty. 

“From Llanduw, and depending on the word your aunt gives us, we’ll go north to Llanfair or farther to Oswestry, to meet king Madog “, the Arkonide said. “As a minstrel, and one well-versed in Welsh poetry of old, I’ll sure get a fair welcome. The rest is up to that letter. Madog ap Maredudd is allied to Ranulf de Gernon, the Earl of Chester, and can be expected to be well-inclined and open to such a meeting. Whether he will attend personally remains to be seen. From what the merchant said, and what else I have heard, there is strife between Owain Gwynedd and Madog ap Maredudd at the moment, and neither might choose to leave his lands, leaving them unguarded from the possible aggression of the other. We shall see. Informing them, and giving them an opportunity to give and send their input surely is worth both the effort and possible risks we might take. “

Alexandra nodded. It was astounding how well she could take and understand the political thoughts and analyses her husband was giving her. Or perhaps it was not so surprising at all. Grown up at the Welsh border, herself a descendant of parents carrying mostly Saxon, but also Norman and Welsh heritage, she was better versed in the shifting loyalties and ways to see the world of different peoples and cultures which sometimes blended together and sometimes clashed. Her father, lacking a son, had let his daughter learn how to read and write, had let her have a rudimentary education in accounting and calculating to have her be a better house-wife and possible manager of her future husband’s household and lands, and let her get even a smattering of Latin. Speaking actually three languages-the Norman French, the Saxon English and her aunt’s Welsh-she had a broader and wider horizon and a kind of mental flexibility a man like Gromell lacked, who knew his English and had a few words of French to understand his Norman lords, and that was it, whether he lived in the border marshes or not. That his grandfather had taught him to read and write was a very lucky circumstance-but then, that grandfather had not been entirely human, and even Gromell carried some traits and attitudes still, and had a knack for swift learning, that spoke of an uncommon ancestry.

His attitudes else were very human and as superstitious as the simple folk of whatever culture upon Earth ever had been. They had been passing through an area where ancient grave-mounds and cairns of bronze-age peoples, long dead and gone, still rose from the ground, grassy hillocks sometimes crowned by a stone that once had been standing and now had fallen, sometimes still jutting up. At places the boulders formed triangles or circles, marking a spring where water still splashed into an ancient basin to run on murmuring into the meadow or flanking the entrance to a gully where the road ran between two steep hillsides. Yew and holly still shadowed such stone passages, whether they had grown there naturally or had been planted by heathen believers in the old gods long ago none could say now.

Gromell crossed himself repeatedly and murmured entreaties to Saint Dunstan and to Saint George to protect him, calling him “the champion of Christ”. That he should feel drawn to the soldier saint was only natural, since Gromell the Fletcher was a bowman and a fighter himself. Alexandra, when she swore, said Saint Catherine! or Holy Virgin! When she did not say Sweet Jesus, which was the most common entreaty coming from her if at all.

Plainly shivering for a moment Gromell said:” Witch country, this is, might all the saints keep us. Why haven’t the people living here built chapels along the way, to ban the evil spirits?”

Involuntarily looking over at his master he caught a very ironic glance of the knight from faery, or rather from Arkon of the Stars, lately come from beneath the Sea. The squire reddened suddenly, and coughed, realizing how his complaint must sound to one who could be called just such a spirit by the ignorant, and who was neither human nor mortal.

“I knew them who buried their dead this way, and who set up the standing stones”, Atlan said gently. “They called themselves the children of the Earth Mother, Suthuma. The ones of their kind I met first, almost six thousand human years ago, were the Roina, a folk in the north living upon bare islands and amid the cold and the snow. They wore seal skins and went hunting fish and small whales and seals out on the sea in their small one-man boats. When I taught them about the stars and their yearly dance they were swift to understand. Anyone out upon the sea does, who then can navigate by the stars and find his way. According to what they had learned from me, and to what they knew about the powerful places upon the Earth, they set up the stones and taught others, till their distant kin in the plains of Albion-what now is England-built up the dance of the Giants, and set up the whole landscape surrounding it for their sacred rites. Nothing then was frightening for the people living in this land about the stone circles they themselves had put up to revere the Earth Mother and the Sky Father, and as to the mounds and the cairns where their dead were buried, to the Suthuma, those were their ancestors who watched over them from the other world, who would visit them in their dreams and would give their children good counsel and would comfort them when they were troubled. A Suthuma, coming this way, would have felt heartened and comforted to see such a reminder of his loved ones at his path.”

Gromell and Alexandra looked at each other and swallowed. The young woman recovered first and smiled at her husband, a little insecurely still. 

“I believe you, leofwine deor, and feel protected and safe with you, though I cannot imagine a time of a thousand years, let alone six times as much. To me, this is like in the Scripture where it says that to God a thousand years are like to a single day. That you, who look young to me and in the full strength of manhood are that old-older than the stones and the rocks-you say so, and I believe you, leofwine. But I cannot conceive of it. It’s too-out of this world- “

“That’s exactly what this whole matter is, by Saint Dunstan”, Gromell grumbled under his breath, and then murmured in an even lower voice that he couldn’t conceive either of himself being descended from such people who were not born human and not the sons and daughters of Adam and Eve.

He sent an even curious look at the knight he was serving. “Atlan-do your people have an Adam and an Eve too? I mean-” 

The Arkonide smiled. “I get your meaning, Gromell. Well, we have many outstanding men and women in the history of our people, but we do not know about the first ones of our kind since that was so long ago. What we do know is that our kind originated not upon Arkon but upon another world, Arbaraith, the world of Singing Crystal. There were a terrible war and a devastating catastrophe, and that world was lost to us. But our people escaped that catastrophe and found a new home we built up from there, which were the three worlds of Arkon. Upon the Crystal World of Arkon, I was born then.”

Gromell’s and Alexandra’s faces had lighted up.

“But that’s just like it happened to mankind”, she said, a tone of satisfaction and relief in her voice. “Noah too survived the Deluge in his ark, and the people of Israel, the chosen people of God, were freed by God from their enemies and escaped Egypt, and were guided to the Promised Land. It’s exactly as it is told in the Bible!”

Atlan choked and swallowed another sarcastic comment. Gods, how easy humans could be with things so different from what they knew, in their ignorance. But since his companions were at their ease again right now and seemed to feel comfortable with their surroundings once more, he was not going to pursue matters and trouble that tranquillity. This was the first time that Arkonath myth and history had been compared to biblical stories! Gods, what would Alexandra and Gromell come up with else, now that he had the first time in his life upon this planet begun to tell his tale as it truly had been, instead of framing it in strictly human terms men could relate to and better understand?

The hills flattened out once more. In some distance, Great Rhos reared up, and the cool and spicy air of the forest that had accompanied them became mingled with the smells of humanity and of its animals, cows and pigs and hens and sheep, smoke and the odour of dung heaps and sweat. 

Kington had come into view, a small and well-walled little town, defended by three towers and a castle, never easy and too careless here at the border. A steady stream of people went to its wide-open gates, crossing the drawbridge and filling the small lanes of the outskirts, a huddle of small houses of which several seemed to be stables and inns. From there the welcome smell of freshly baked bread and grilled sausage wafted towards them as they approached, overtaking another such wagon drawn by oxen and three peddlers on foot carrying their wares on their back. One of them was even hawking his goods on the way-ribbons of silk and needles and colourful threads-and waved a fir green band at Alexandra, calling out that she could wear the colours of her man that way. The Arkonide grinned and threw the man a coin, who then handed the band over and produced two more on the spot, calling that the lady surely could use more of them since nowhere she could get better. But that offer was ignored. They had their horses canter on and get on to the town.

The meals the inns offered were good, the prices reasonable, and the tables packed to the last place, even the trestle tables put out in front of the houses in the mud of the street offered no room. Gromell, who had smiled all over his broad Saxon face at the smell of food had his face falling at that. Inside the little town, matters seemed to be worse.

“It’s the Fair and market day tomorrow”, Atlan said, realizing the situation even without his extra brain explaining. That they would not get a bed to lie in for the night was as obvious.

“Let’s get bread and sausages and then we’ll ride on. Sunset is in another four hours, and till then we’ll be at Pencraig, with some luck. There’s still apples and sweet raisin cake in our saddlebags.”

The squire heaved an audible sigh, but seeing how matters were he did his master’s bidding and went into the nearest tavern, coming back a few minutes later laden with goods and with his sack well filled. A leather flask-full of cider-he brought too, and buttermilk for the lady in another skin.

The Arkonide nodded approvingly, and after Gromell had packed the food they saw to it that they got out of the crowd and could head further west on a road where the milling of the travelers was beginning to thin out with every minute closer to evening. When the sun sank they were on a road appearing quite deserted.

“Pencraig ahead”, the falcon announced, swooping lower. “Trouble. Manor burning.”

Startled, the travelers looked at each other, and then wordlessly every one of them spurred his and her horse, towards trouble instead of away from it.

“Raiders? Soldiers?” Atlan asked in a sharp tone and heard the falcon deny. If there had been such men abroad, they were no longer in view. Perhaps the manor had caught flame from an unwary man letting fall a candle.

But it was worse than that. Coming out of the trees and riding across the wide field toward the ruined house which was still smouldering and smoking heavily, they happened upon the corpses of two fighting men, both of them with arrows sticking out of their throats.

“Shot from behind”, the Arkonide observed grimly, and sharply commanded:” Arrow! Guard Alexandra!”

Turning to her he said:” Beloved, please be careful and get down from the saddle the moment you see anyone who might become dangerous. Take shelter by the horse and let the wolf guard you. He can shield you from any weapon a human might use.”

She agreed in a thin voice. The peaceful evening scene was turning too swiftly into one of blood and death, and Surrey of Mowbray’s attack upon her husband was only a few days in the past.

Gromell already had his bow out and an arrow cocked to the string. But there was no man to be seen but the ones running in and out of the ruined manor, dragging out half-burned items and apparently looking for victims of the fire they still could save.

At the end of the field where a row of willows accompanied a small stream another unmoving heap of bodies lay, three or four clad like the men they had already found. There was nothing to be done about them, it seemed. Whatever help they could offer and the noble minstrel from Toulouse could apply with his healing skills must be reserved for those who still lived.

And of those there were a few, a little girl who was softly whimpering away, her tear-streaked face turned up searching for a person who might stop her pain. Both her legs were burned raw, her shoulder bloody. At least her wounds were more on the surface of her body. 

The young man laid on the ground at her side, doubled up with pain and holding his stomach with crossed arms, shivering with his teeth clenched and his eyes shut, was a sight no better. Blood seeped through his fingers and drenched his shirt and his hose, from a wound that might have been inflicted by a spear. If that youth had been hit in the guts, even he would be unable to save his life, Atlan knew with a cold feeling.

He dismounted and ran up to the desperate helpers, seeking out someone leading and directing to introduce himself and his squire and offer his help. But they had been seen, and on his own, a man strode up, of middle age, disheveled and his clothes ragged, blood and soot upon chafed hands and smearing him all over. At least the blood seemed not to be his.

“I am Atlan de l’Arcon of Toulouse, minstrel, and harper, good sir”, the troubadour introduced himself. “We were on our way to Pencraig to ask for a bed this night when we passed here. How can we be of assistance?”

“You might be a godsend, good harper, with your wolfhound”, the man answered in a rough voice. “My wife is still in there, with our baby son. Perhaps still alive, but surely a-swoon, and the little ‘un doesn’t cry either. And several others of my household. We don’t know where to dig. Perhaps the dog-?”

“Of course. We’ll try immediately.”

With a whistle and a call, he summoned the wolf to his side. Alexandra rode up, was introduced, and dismounted swiftly to offer her help too, kneeling down at the girl’s side and starting to peel off the rags still covering her, murmuring soothing words. Gromell knelt by the youth and tried to speak to him, trying to find out where the wound was and whether he could at least staunch the blood.

Arrow was, of course, an even better searcher than any hound or wolf could have been, being a robot and able to scan his surroundings, reading the signs of life-forms active. Both the wife and her son soon were found alive, beneath the charred remains of the roof having fallen in near the cellar door, where the woman must have tried to flee to. Both were unconscious, and both were wounded, but that was mere scratches in comparison to other wounds some of the victims bore whom they managed to drag out of the still smouldering remnants of the hall, where a good meal must have been in progress when the soldiers attacked so suddenly.

Three were dead and one might be dying within the hour, while two more were hurt badly and another boy was hurt only lightly and could limp away, his face tear-streaked. One of the dead ones was his mother, a serving wench.

The disaster was thorough and awful enough. Atlan discarded his tunic, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and without further ado started to do his physician’s work, which brought the first wan smile upon the face of the stricken manor’s lord. 

“A godsend, I avow”, he said, and then worked on with his people, getting better order into everything now that the dead and the living had been extracted from the ruin.  
The outlying stables and sheds had been left standing and could be used to give meager shelter to the bedraggled survivors of the assault. With the help of one of the serving maids, Alexandra got a savoury stew underway, mostly consisting of their own provisions, which the Arkonide and his wife matter-of-factly shared with the stricken people of the manor. The house’s lady had woken and complained of little less than a bad headache, but her young son was off worse. The child had been harmed by the smoke it had breathed, and would not wake, his little heart beginning to falter.

Using Dagor grips Atlan took up the battle for the boy’s life, massaged his heart, and blew air into his lungs, again and again, and again. Kneeling in the hay he looked almost as dirty as the rest of the people, mud and soot and blood upon his clothes and smeared even into his hair. Only his hands were clean since he had seen to it he had washed them thoroughly and had ordered water to be set up in the stable’s only kettle to have it cook and used to purify his knife and other utensils he needed for chirurgic work. Broken bones had had to be set and arrows had to be cut out of two wounds. The lad who had bled so badly had been saved by Gromell first and then by the Arkonide, who had been able to cauterize and bind the wound going through the boy’s side. Miraculously no vital organ had been hit and injured, or the youth would have been dead within the hour. As it was, Atlan had had to use crushed garlic, sour wine, and honey from the stores of the outer stables to salve the wound with, and whether that would be enough to keep festering at bay was a question. As a rough-and-ready treatment, it sufficed, for now. Anyway, the youth had begun to be feverish and would be worse in the night. Arkonath medicine would help, and a field-tab had unobtrusively been used by the Arkonide. In his pain, the youngster had not felt the additional small stab. 

The master of the manor was on his knees at the boy’s side and spoke to him softly. It was his nephew and a boy beloved dearly. Still, the father was throwing anxious glances over to where Atlan was administering first aid to the tiny child, watched as desperately by the mother.

Then by full dark at long last, the baby began to cough and then to cry, giving shattering wails of indignation and fear turning to rage. But nothing could have pleased the fearful parents better. A big piece of their world had been restored to them.

The work for the ailing took up half the night still and would take most of the morning again. The acrid smell of smoke hung over everything and would not disperse for days to come. As for the dead, they would have to be buried tomorrow. The people of Pencraig, the village, were already notified. Two brave men, the miller, and his son had dared to come over and ask about the state of matters. That the people of Pencraig else had not ventured out to help was not taken amiss, and for that, there was a good reason.

“Over in Maesyfed”, Gwion the lord of the manor explained, “at Trefaesyfed Castle, there reigns William de Braose, who is a hard but just lord, and who has let us all prosper a little. Yet he is away most of the time at his home at Bramber or at the English King’s court, and his steward, reigning over us in his stead, is a hard and evil master indeed. Yet what can we do? If we complain or protest, we are deemed to be in rebellion and can be hung within the day if it so pleases the steward, Sir Lionel de Marchault. We could have run and escaped into Wales proper, but then we would have been fugitives, destitute and poor. I wanted to keep living at the manor. By right it is the lord William’s, and so the steward will see to it that the house will be rebuilt and our livestock restored for us to work with. But the lives those brutes took and the maiming some of us have suffered, what is going to make all that right, I ask?”

There were pain and anger in the man’s voice, but also resignation, for the ones who had attacked had been soldiers in the pay of the said steward, the people were sure of it.

“So what were they after, at your manor?” the Arkonide asked. The soldiers who lay dead in the field, killed by arrows, spears, and swords, were another puzzle he’d like explained.

“There was a party of high-born travelers we had as guests today”, Gwion said, desperately going through his hair with both hands, streaking himself with more soot and dirt. It made no difference to his appearance anymore.

“A Princess of Wales, King Madog ap Maredudd’s own daughter, and two princes of Deheubarth, with their retinue and a good escort, on their way back to her father’s court. Of course, we offered hospitality gladly when we were asked. It was a great honour. But somehow the Norman scoundrels have learned and were on their heels in hot pursuit, and suddenly they came to my door demanding entrance and the surrender of my guests to them, and how could I do that, with the law of sacred hospitality protecting them? So I said them nay, and then the Norman soldiers attacked and broke in the door and set my house on fire, and they carried the young lady and the boys away, and slew her soldiers. They’re prowling the area still, and the villagers fear them as I should have. But I could not break the trust of hospitality, I could not-“

Now at long last tears ran down the man’s face and made lines of lighter skin across his sooty cheeks, disappearing in his beard.

Atlan, Alexandra, and Gromell exchanged glances. Agreeing the Arkonide nodded.

“No, that wasn’t something you could do”, he said firmly. “No matter what, and no matter that you got into danger by being assaulted by Norman soldiers. Speaking of which. If they are prowling the area, we wouldn’t like to be accosted by them either. We’ll take some rest as best we can now and will depart on the morrow after I have seen to the wounded once more. We have to be on our way as well.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you from my heart for your help, good minstrel, good woman, good man. You have helped us so much, and you have saved the lives of my nephew and my son-“

Smiling Atlan bowed and accepted a bowl of stew that was pressed into his hand. They retired to a somewhat secluded corner of the haystack with the food and had some nourishment as well. There were not enough bowls to go round, but at least there were wooden spoons enough, for they had carried them in their saddlebags.  
Eating all three out of the same bowl they got at least some bites into their stomachs. After all that exhausting work, they were right hungry. Apples and raisin cakes would have to do after.

Now that they had some privacy at long last, they could confer in low tones.

“We cannot risk falling into the hands of ill-willing and blood-thirsty soldiers of Norman ilk”, the Arkonide murmured.

“If the letters were found we’d be in the direst of trouble. A harper should be left alone, but on the other hand, for an armed troupe, we’d be fair game, at least officially. Of course, I can fight them off with the means I have to hand. But I do not wish to be hunted as a sorcerer after, or be sought for having shot ten men with our bows. Avoiding this trouble is the best we can do.”

He stopped, thoughtfully. Gromell saw the tell-tale glint in his knightly friend’s red eyes and began to grin, while Alexandra showed some anxiousness and softly protested. 

“But leofwine deor. The girl and the boys-they are a princess of Wales and high nobles and relatives of another prince and will be treated badly as hostages. The marcher Normans are the direst enemies of the Welsh, and they are not kind to us Saxons either. These three children have no help now but for us, and-“

Atlan smiled and simply kissed her, disregarding how dirty they both were.

“You are absolutely right, my love. And considering that it is Madog ap Maredudd we are going to visit, what better present to give to him than his own daughter, rescued from a terrible fate? You can rest assured that we will be accepted with open hearts at that court then. Apart from all the other good reasons we might find like our obligation to help where we can-we have the abilities and the means, after all, and there is no-one but us who knows of their plight and can act in time -and then I have a very clear notion about who these Normans are whom we would pit ourselves against. Lionel de Marchault, de Braose’s steward whose men committed these outrages-that is a name I have heard mention, together with Adam de Courcelle’s.”

Gromell frowned. “Who said?” he asked, a bad suspicion rising in his mind. His master and friend gave him a swift nod.

“Surrey of Mowbray’s squire, at the tournament at Abergavenny. As well we know that Adam de Courcelle is Surrey Hamon d’Aubigny’s friend and hunting companion-looks like this de Marchault is another one of that ilk and breeding. I admit that I do not mind giving a friend of Surrey’s a bad turn.”

Alexandra smiled cheerfully and nodded. No, she found no compassion for Surrey of Mowbray in her heart, who had seen fit to become her beloved husband’s enemy and had treacherously assaulted him two times by now.  
The place they were at was safe for now. Since the Normans had their prey in their hands they would not bother to return to the manor they had burned. There was nothing anymore for them to take or to learn here.

“They are said to prowl the area still”, the logic sector threw in. “Which means that the Normans haven’t caught everyone they were after from that party yet, and are still upon the search. There might be someone left for you to find and rescue and question, Arkonide. Six soldiers of the princess’ escort are accounted for, dead. Such escorts number ten men at least normally and can be more especially if the nobles they accompany are more than one. Where are the others? Look for them first, send out Falco. Perhaps there’ll be a trail of bodies to follow to its end where a fugitive may still be hiding.”

The thought was a macabre one, but unfortunately, it was right logical. Whatever was there to find out, the falcon would find it easier than a human, flying and scanning from above, and seeing living beings by their infrared emanations. Even if someone hid within the shrubbery, invisible to pursuers, to the scan of the robot the one would stand out.

“Getting first-hand data on the identity of the lady, and the two princes, might prove vital”, the extra brain added.

“The relations and kinships, by blood and fosterage, by alliance or marriage of the Welsh nobility are as complicated, shifting and volatile as they ever were among the Arkonath Khasurnai, your noble families, Gos athor da Arkon, Crystal Prince. Deheubarth has many ties with both Powys and Gwynedd, some of them good and some of them worsened. For example, Cadwaladr, Owain Gwynedd’s brother, has been friend and ally and sword-brother, and almost brother-in-law to Anarawd ap Gruffydd, but he allegedly had him murdered for whatever reason. That young king-or Prince-of Deheubarth would have married a daughter of Owain Gwynedd and would have become a close-held ally. Instead, his brother Cadell now is king. The Deheubarth princes are closely related to Gwynedd’s royals anyway. Their mother Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd was Owain’s and Cadwaladr’s sister. Those two young princes might well be illegitimate sons of one of old Gruffydd ap Rhys’ sons-possibly even of Anarawd’s, who is known to have sired offspring before he ever contemplated marriage. That means that both Cadwaladr-who is his royal brother’s opponent, at the moment-and Owain Gwynedd himself might be the great-uncles of the two youngsters, and Madog ap Maredudd, who married Owain’s other sister Susanna, might hold the same kind of relationship to them as an in-law. His daughter, therefore, is a great-cousin to the two. Marriages between cousins are a common occurrence in Wales. If the princess is fostered together with the two boys, she might be promised to one of the Deheubarth princes. If you rescue her and the princes too, keon-athor, then all three most important Welsh princes are beholden to you. It would be an ideal basic position for you then to negotiate from. This assault is a tragedy to the ones suffering from it, but if you can use it to your advantage, it might become a stroke of luck for you, Arkonide.”

Atlan grimaced a little. The deliberations of the extra brain seemed cruel and heartless indeed, but they were just coolly logical and as such perfectly acceptable and to be considered. Apart from the fact that he would have been thinking about rescuing that girl even without the prospect of doing Surrey’s friends a bad turn, or making use of the incident to maneuver himself into an advantageous position with his political human targets of the mission. He was word-bound and honour-bound to protect and help these humans, who inhabited this little world named Larsaf three.

“Of course, granted, keon-athor”, the extra brain responded. “But there is no harm in making use of what offers itself. On the contrary, it only serves effectiveness. Opportunities will present themselves.”

An age-old Dagor dictum, that, and as valid now as it had been then when he was twelve and fought for his life and sanity, together with the weal of the whole of the Tai Ark’Tussan.

Looking up the Arkonide met the gazes of his wife and his friend. “We’ll go and try to find whomever the Normans still are hunting for”, he said calmly. “We’ll take it from there. Best it were if we could learn also who exactly the princess and the two young nobles are. Gwion did not say and seems not to have been told names. But very possibly this is not only about Norman greed but also about power and politics. We’ll do our best to free and rescue the ones who are left alive of that party. There should be retainers and perhaps soldiers also, we will have to free and get away. For that, we most likely will have to get into the castle they have been dragged to; easiest that might be done quite openly, me as a minstrel seeking employ or at least asking shelter and offering entertainment. I will send out the falcon to see and find what can be found. We, on our part, will take as much rest as we can and restore ourselves to some seemliness of appearance. The clothes we wear will have to be washed thoroughly, which will be done easiest at some inn. The same goes for taking baths. Here at the burned manor none of such service can be had, of course, and as well we will have to get supplies. Where we’ll turn to we’ll see after Falco has reported back in.”

Gromell and Alexandra nodded, their eyes glinting and their shoulders squared, no more tiredness to be noticed with them. But rest they needed, and after some cursory washing at the horse through they laid down in the hay, rolled warmly into their cloaks, and slept.

The wounded would need more, and better care, than the rough-and-ready aid Atlan had been able to give them the previous evening by the light of a flickering fire. They had to be nursed back to health carefully, he explained and told the anxious lord and lady of the manor what and how to do it, recommending a safe house. That would be found at Pencraig, Gwion nodded, and offered the simple mash of groats his household still could offer for breakfast.

Smiling the Arkonide accepted, exchanging a humorous look with his squire on the matter of groats, and they did their best to make themselves presentable once more. The dirty clothes were bundled away. Alexandra had spare clothes now, thanks to the lady of Hereford, and would have more by evening if Rico could deliver as he had estimated.

Falco the robot falcon was still searching. He had indeed found what could be called a trail of bodies, dead men who had been soldiers in the service of the Welsh princess. There had been seven corpses, lying at the side of the path leading towards the castle named Trefaesyfed, just across the valley, and some others strung along a path that roughly went to the northwest into the woods, amounting to a total of twenty-three men, the captain of the fighting troupe and two men clearly retainers among the seven, while the others were guardsmen who seemed to have tried to run and escape. 

“A troupe of twenty with a captain in the lead”, the logic sector commented. “The lady and the princes should have been safe. The Normans must have had at least some wounded too. I conclude that the effort and the risk must have been worth it, for the Normans.”

When they were making ready to leave Atlan’s ring suddenly was vibrating. There was a message from Falco coming in, at long last.

“A fugitive, running from a party of five fighting men with hounds. Gaining on her. Rocky and hilly forested area. Fugitive is a woman, with a probability of 90 percent belonging to the sought-for and persecuted group. Estimated time of rendezvous with pursuers two to three tontas.”

Oh. Damn it to Ereinnye. That was close, damn close. He’d get to her in time, the Arkonide knew, riding Tec’taan which was a robot and who could fly. Not so with Alexandra and Gromell. And then, if he wanted to be able to talk to that woman later, he’d have to appear to her as human and as normal as possible. With only five men after her and not all of a troupe numbering enough men to kill off twenty-one seasoned soldiers, she could not be the princess but must be a retainer, perhaps her maid. That the Norman soldiers pursued her after even a day proved, on the other hand, that they had orders to leave no-one of that party alive or at large. Their commander’s was not the act of a man seeking ransom but one who wished to keep his acts of felony, whatever they were, secret for as long as possible. What was going to happen to this Welsh princess and her two young companions?

“Alexandra. Gromell.” The Arkonide spoke softly, gesturing his companions nearer to him.

“Falco sends word. A woman, perhaps the Welsh princess’ maid, has been seen by him, running from pursuit deeper into the wood. Five men are after her with hounds. With them on her track, they’ll find her, and already are close. Riding to the rescue as we are we cannot hope to be in time if they intend to kill her, which is to be expected-the two retainers of the young princes were shot with arrows too. Riding for her alone, though, I shall be swift enough. So we’ll leave as we would have, and once out of the sight of others, we’ll part. I’ll get the girl and stop the men, and you’ll follow, for us to meet further up the path. Arrow will know by Falco’s word where to find us and will lead you there. “

Alexandra of Lancaster’s eyes were wide and full of concern. "Leofwine-leofwine, you’ll be alone against five murderous soldiers and their hounds-“

Atlan gave his wife a loving look and a swift kiss.

“I’ll be a match for them, never fear. Neither do I wish to kill them and have a troupe of twenty searching for me after. With my staff, I can fight them easily enough as I fought off the guardsmen of the Earl of Hereford. Falco will see to the hounds and draw them off my scent. Out of the sight of men he can strike them unconscious. “

The woman swallowed and nodded, but her fear and her worries for her beloved man obviously were not fully allayed yet. Gromell cleared his throat.

“Sir Knight-Atlan, my friend. If you do not plan to kill and hope to go to the castle where the princess and the princes are held, in your guise as a minstrel-won’t those soldiers recognize you then, the while your eyes-“ He stopped, seeing his magical and non-human friend’s sharp smile.

“You are of course right in this, knave my friend. So I’ll go disguised-as an old man hobbling along only propped up by my staff. It will be enough to draw up my mantle’s hood and walk bent over-the mantle’s halfway a mess anyway with the treatment it got last evening and night. Nobody will expect a fighter, let alone a knight, wearing such a soiled and sooty garment.”

Which was pure truth, and one of the reasons they had decided to seek an inn before they would venture to ride up to castle Trefaesyfed as a minstrel with his wife and his retainer, offering his services to entertain the lord and his men. The fir-green tunic the Arkonide had worn had been kept clean since he had pulled it off before he had started his work as a physician. But hose and shirt were a mess, and the mantle had been commandeered early on to lay one of the wounded down upon since whatever else the stricken household would have had for the purpose was burnt and gone. At an inn, baths would have been available, and the maids would have gladly have set to work with washing the minstrel’s clothes with some coins pressed into their hands.

Gromell nodded, seemingly convinced. He had seen his noble friend fight before and knew that Atlan wasn’t boasting, and Alexandra seemed convinced now too. She must be remembering the tales she would have heard about the Fair Folk and its magical powers, and the glamouries one of the Tylwythen Deg could employ, making himself appear in the shape of another person, even of a lifeless object or an animal. Her husband’s plan to come in disguise to the rescue of the maiden in distress must be reassuring for her.

Time was pressing now. They took their leave of Gwion and his family and rode away towards Pencraig, only to veer off the road at the first opportunity, to follow a path that went straight northward into the woods.

“Here’s where, Falco says”, the Arkonide explained. “Down that path, the woman escaped and her pursuers followed. Follow you too, the while I shall be riding somewhat swifter to the woman’s rescue. When you arrive at the scene we shall know more and better about the situation.”

Gromell and Alexandra only nodded, trusting their friend and husband. Atlan smiled shortly and spurred his black stallion, disappearing under the trees, activating the skorge’tar, the deflector field to be invisible to human eyes, and gave the signal for the robot horse to use the antigrav and go straight up above the leaves towards the small clearing where the falcon hovered and was watching the fugitive girl, staggering with exhaustion, struggle up the hill through shrubbery and brush.

Arriving Atlan saw that he was late, almost too late.

Beneath him the girl was halfway standing, halfway lying with her back against a large rock, desperately defending herself against three brutes of bloodhounds with a branch she must have picked up under the trees. The dogs were angrily snarling and had drawn blood a little already, but they had not badly bitten her or mortally wounded her yet. Their masters must have given orders to the beasts not to kill. Was this young woman to be spared?

“Perhaps, and perhaps this is but for the sake of getting better sport out of the victim”, the logic sector commented grimly. What would be left of this girl after five men had had their fun with her one could imagine. Gods.

Tec’taan came to the ground just beyond the clearing, and the Arkonide threw himself out of the saddle, landing on his feet as a Dagor Laktrote could pulled down his hood and snatched out the rod, turning it into his Dagor staff with a hit upon the switch, and ran out into the clearing, charging the hounds without delay.

The young woman cried out as the staff smashed down upon the snout of the leading hound, sending the animal back with a pained yelp, while the suddenly appeared stranger whirled in between her and the pack and used his staff to smash another hound over the head with one end and with a half-turn let the other end clash with the third dog’s breast as the beast attacked.

Atlan had expected the hounds to run yelping, hurt as he had left them. But these were no dyrehounds bred for the hunt or simple curs which would run when hit. These were bloodhounds, raised, and trained to hunt men, for fighting and war and killing an enemy.

Their jaws gaping and howling in a really blood-curdling manner the three hounds attacked their new enemy, and this time they came with clearly killing intent. Jumping they could reach a standing man’s throat, just as Arrow the robot wolf could.

Instead of letting the beasts get this far the Arkonide ducked and whirled his staff, smashing the forelegs of two of the jumping hounds, and with a murderous kick right into the gaping maws of the third, he crushed the throat of the animal, which fell choking and died. The other two, trying to scramble up with their hind legs and still viciously snapping he killed with two lethal hits with the end of his staff at their skulls. The howling stopped abruptly; in the sudden silence, only Atlan’s deep breaths measured to Dagor fighting cadences, and the shocked gasps of the girl were audible. 

But before the Arkonide could turn and reveal himself to her the pounding of hooves could be heard upon the soft ground of the wood path. Several horses, and by Falco’s signal those were the five men who were on the young woman’s track.

Calling the robot bird to his aid with the pressing of his thumb against his ring Atlan took up position again, this time in the deceiving stance of a tired old man, long strands of white hair falling out of the cowl, his bent figure only held up by the staff he gripped.

The Norman soldiers rode into the clearing, five of them alright. Clad in the hauberk, the typical ring-mail shirt, wearing helmets with nose-guards and high leather riding boots, and armed with long daggers and well-used swords, even bows, and quivers at the side, these men could well down ten men on foot if those were not well-trained fighting men as obviously were they. Therefore one old man could not be perceived as a threat by them and wasn’t. Their leader even showed confusion as to the cause of death of the three hounds whose corpses they saw before their eyes, bleeding upon the old leaves upon the forest floor.

His second was more observant. Exclaiming in Norman French, he pointed to the staff the old man held, which showed traces of blood, and accosted the Arkonide sharply. 

Bending in upon himself, bowing abjectly and murmuring apologies in Welsh in a hoarse voice, Atlan hobbled closer, closing the distance as swiftly as he could to get into striking range and forestall the use of the bows. He had his goth zhym tar, his protective energy shield, built into his belt, but he did not want to activate it if he wasn’t forced to do so by mortal danger. Too easily the girl would have seen something then which would have told her that she wasn’t dealing with natural means in him.

“Eh, vioc!” That he was called an old man in a pejorative way confirmed that the men as yet they did not suspect their danger, the Arkonide thought. Good. Two more steps. One.

The leader was looking directly down upon him now. In a voice dripping with contempt he stated coldly, only for the benefit of his comrades, in French:” That old gaffer must have killed our hounds, defending the slut. He did us harm enough in that, and he clearly has no money for recompense. The slut’s run down at least. Let us have our sport, and then be done with her. That gaffer has sealed his fate anyway. Kill him.”

That order was given in a voice as indifferent as the man would have used it to tell his men to dismount and have a break, Atlan thought with disgust as he turned to bring round his staff and bash in the throat of the man above him. His plan of hitting the soldiers unconscious and let them return alive to their master was proving to have become impractical if not impossible with this killing order of the Normans’ captain. Moreover, the hounds lay dead too, and the damage already was done. The search would be up very soon, and the hunt swiftly after. But if he left nothing but corpses, which would become necessary as well with this order to kill, and would be pure self-defence and defence of another in mortal danger, then the searchers would be up against an empty and clueless path. They would not connect this carnage with a minstrel riding up from Kington Fair, with his wife and her maid and his retainer. The staff would have become a rod tucked into his boot.

The leading soldier died with a wet cough and a thud as he fell from his horse, his throat crushed, his wide eyes staring sightlessly. In surprise, the other soldiers stared as shocked and let their enemy come near them at a swift run, giving a hard jolt against a shoulder throwing one man out of the saddle and the second hit against his temple with the staff’s end, which broke that man’s skull and had the corpse slowly slump forward and slide down gently.

The third man cried out, a foul word out of a French gutter, and spurred his horse forward to attack, sword drawn, and raised to strike down.

The Arkonide whirled out of the way, struck the horse against its forelegs to make it stumble, and smashed the staff’s end against the man’s right knee. Bones crunched, and the man let fall his sword, shrieking. He bent over and to the side, looking at the injury, and was hit at the back of his skull, a stroke that broke his neck right and clean. The neighing horse, pained and panicked, threw his dead weight from its back and bolted, straight into the shrubbery.

Two men were left, and to their credit, they did not turn and run. One of them rode straight at the fighter he still seemed to think to be an old man by the invectives he yelled, and the other one made for the girl, bending out of the saddle and reaching for her, apparently intending to draw her up and have her for his prize nevertheless. 

But the young woman was no hapless victim. Sobbing audibly she still determinedly swung her stick and by a lucky stroke brought the man even down, helped along by the sudden swoop of the falcon almost flying into the man’s face. With a thud and an odd crash, the soldier landed in front of her, losing his helmet and perhaps having broken a leg or an arm by the scream he gave.

And then he gave another as the girl heaved up a heavy piece of rock from the forest mould and smashed it straight into his head, and did so again and again, weeping audibly but never relenting, till the man’s screams and his twitching ceased and he lay still in a growing puddle of blood slowly seeping into the ground.

The while Atlan had to deflect the mighty strokes of his last enemy’s sword hailing down upon him from above. Had the staff been of real wood it would have been hacked through. But since this was Arkonath steel only painted to resemble wood it was the soldier’s sword which was scarred and at last broke, and with a filthy oath, the Norman drew his dagger and threw himself from the saddle to fall upon the Arkonide, screaming that he would make an end of this cur.

With the speed of a Dagor Laktrote Atlan managed to roll away and was up before the man had scrambled up himself, and jumped, his knee connecting with the soldier’s breast and his fist with the man’s brow, with an impact that made the man’s head fly back and his neck break. Silently the corpse sank back and lay like a doll made of rags, while the Arkonide snapped in the staff and tucked it away, turned with a deep breath, and another to compose himself and went over to the young woman, throwing back his hood.

She knelt beside the man who had hunted her for two days and whom she had killed at long last, and wept quietly, shivering slightly and staring up at the man slowly approaching her, his empty hands stretched out to her. 

“I am Atlan of Arcon, a minstrel from Toulouse, and was on my way to the Kington fair with my wife and my retainer when we happened upon the smoking ruins of the manor you had stayed at and where you have been attacked, good damsel”, he said slowly and gently in Welsh, bowing.

“We stayed to help and heard that some of the assailed party might have escaped and would be hunted by the men who have committed the slaughter whose traces we saw everywhere up and down the path. I have been to the Holy Land both as a pilgrim and a crusader and would not abandon you or others to your fate out of cowardice or love of comfort. I do perhaps not look it as a troubadour, but I was used to hard fighting in my life before and am up to it still, and so, thanks to God, could come to your rescue.”

He held out his hand to help her up and she took it, holding on to that hand in an almost convulsive grip for a moment before she relaxed and rose, her knees apparently still shaking a little, and curtsied in a quite courtly manner.

“I am Rhysel ferch Alun, good minstrel, and thank you with all my heart that you have fought for me and have saved my life. May the Virgin and all the Saints, and the Saviour himself bless you and keep you. I have been hunted for two days-“

“I know. My wife and my man will be here shortly. My own hound will find us and guide them to this place. You shall have some rest and nourishment, and can tell us your tale.”

He reached into his robe and produced the flask, offering her a drink of sweet mead which revived her considerably.

“Thank you, good minstrel. I-I cannot just take my rest. My lady and her relatives are in the direst of danger. I must find help in time-please, Sir minstrel, have you found and rescued another, or am I the only one of our party whom you met?”

Regretfully the Arkonide shook his head. “You are the only one, Rhysel. Everyone else seems to be either dead or has been dragged away and abducted, to Trefaesyfed castle, as we believe. Who is the lady you serve?”

“Gwenllian ferch Madog, the daughter of Madog ap Maredudd, the king of Powys, and she was traveling with her foster brothers Hywel and Cadfan, the young sons of Anarawd ap Gruffydd, who ruled Deheubarth before he was killed by treachery and murder six years ago. She is betrothed now to Anarawd’s younger brother Rhys, and we were returning to her father’s court when we suddenly were set upon by those Norman curs, this-this Walter Fitz Gilbert de Clare, who heard of her and hunted her down to abduct her and marry her and force her against her will, to get her lands and much power here in Wales, all to regain what his brother lost when he was killed in Wales and what his kinsmen lost at Crug Mawr where our people were the victors.”

“I see.” Atlan still spoke gently and calmly. It was as the logic sector had surmised.

“He told your lady all of this?”

The girl swallowed and nodded. Her clear hazel brown eyes and her messed-up braids of long auburn hair almost glowed in the light of the shafts of sunlight falling into the clearing through green leaves and branches slightly swaying with a breeze. It was so peaceful here now if one managed to ignore the corpses strewn around under the trees, five men and three hounds, and the four horses having trotted away to the other side where long soft grass was growing and where they could graze.

“We were in the manor and listened through the kitchen window while he sat his horse in front of the barred door and shouted that he would marry her in four days’ time when he would have a priest from a Norman cloister, and she’d better come out as long as he was in a good mood and would treat her nicely. My lady refused, and the rest-I think you know about all the rest, Sir Minstrel, don’t you?”

She began to shiver again and suddenly wept out loud. The Arkonide simply took her into his arms and held her fast while Rhysel ferch Alun cried her heart out, clinging to him desperately. But she managed to gasp words in between her sobs.

“Please-Sir Minstrel-can you find help for my lady? In three days that brute will force her against her will, and she will be his then and will be married, and bound to him for her life. There-there isn’t time, I fear, to ride to her father and tell him of his daughter’s danger. But if you are a crusader, and a pilgrim who was in the Holy Land, perhaps you know some knights, have friends-please, please, it will be to the detriment of so many of my countrymen if they fall under the Norman yoke again, please-“

“I will help your lady in any way I can, I give you my word on that, Rhysel,” Atlan said calmly and firmly. She still shook with her sobs, but she did her best now to calm down and become coherent again.

“Please, please-yes? Will you, Sir Minstrel? What-what-“ 

She seemed to see her rescuer’s eyes the first time now clearly and drew a gasping breath, realizing that the man in the soiled robe was a man in his best years but had silvery-white hair, and his eyes glittered golden red.

But then she neither drew away nor showed any fright. Her eyes only widened in wonder, and she smiled shyly, suddenly reddening. At least she, who was a Welshwoman born and bred, did not immediately act as if she thought him one of the Tylwythen deg, the Arkonide thought ironically as he gently drew back from their tight embrace.

“My lady wife will look after you for now, Rhysel. She’s mainly of Saxon descent, but one grandmother of hers was Welsh, and she still knows of her Welsh relatives. My retainer is Saxon bred and born and knows no other tongue than English. I’ll translate where necessary.”

“There is no need for that, Sir Minstrel. I have been with my lady for two years now and have learned from her tutor also. I have good French by now and can speak the Saxon tongue as well, and even have some smattering of the Scots’ Gael. Sister Richildis is of Scots and Saxon blood.”

The young woman’s face clouded once more. Her smile disappeared. “I do not know whether she still lives, of course.”

“We did not find the body of a nun or of any woman among the slain”, Atlan explained and heard hoof beats at long last, and a short wolf’s howl that made him smile with relief.

“They’re coming, and we’ll depart this place as swiftly as we can. I do not wish to encounter any other search party, neither in this vicinity nor anywhere else in the area. First, we shall get you to true safety, and then we’ll decide what to do about the situation. We have three days still, and the morrow will bring better counsel, as the saying goes.”

\+ + + 

Tethra was a god who lived beneath the sea and reigned over the realm of the dead, the master said. As a sacrifice, he demanded milk and blood and new-born infants and would give back strength and power to his worshipers. Ravens and crows were sacred to him and to his mate, bloody Badb of the Battles, her domain being bloodshed and the carnage of battlefields and the fear and terror such sights instigated.

The young man wondered. He had heard other fairy tales from his nanny, who had named Manannan mac Lir as the ruler over Mag Mell, the “Plain of Joy” beneath the sea. At that, the master snorted in disgust and acknowledged that this actually was true, since Manannan the Danann lord had usurped the domain and the rule of the older God, who had been the king of the Fomori.

“The better, and the more readily, will Tethra now listen to us, and accept our sacrifice, who has hungered for worship and tribute for so long”, the master said, and his pupil knew that the master was speaking for himself there too. How well he understood the almost insatiable hunger of his teacher! The same craving filled his heart as well when he thought of how sweet the life of the baby had tasted, how good it had felt to be given its energies, and how easy it had been to get this life.

But still, it was all in the mind, and the consciousness of self which grown men had, who would have much more power to give than a tiny baby, was in the way for him to be able to take such a life into himself as yet, and the people they ate had to be conscious and to be able to realize their death at least subconsciously for it to be as nourishing and sweet as the master needed it to be. They could not strike someone unconscious and then eat him, therefore. 

“Master, couldn’t we drug someone? Filling him up with uisge beatha, or giving him something like-like henbane?” the young man asked, as they were on their way to the cave at the end of the loch, having crept out of the castle at the dead of night. The young man knew his way by heart, and the master could see in the dark, a combination they could make use of well on their way. It was exhilarating to be able to use such powers, the young man thought, unconcernedly walking his way with crow and raven upon his shoulders, his bag with the baby’s bones and some kindling slung around his shoulders.

The master chuckled as they light-footed passed through hedges and stepped across roots and stones swiftly, all without any light of lantern or torch.

“You are a good pupil of mine, my dear, and have good ideas of your own!” he said. “That might indeed be a solution to our problem, at least for the time until you have become used to eating minds and have hardened your soul. But a full-grown man, used to fighting and to putting himself forth-in short, a person with a strong sense of self-would be too heavy a meal for you still, I fear. A child, though, like the beggar boy we have tried to eat before, now, that might be feasible in such a manner. Ply him with milk and have henbane added-that is a right good idea-and then take his life while he is still awake but on the verge of sleep. You might still have a struggle of it, but it might be a possible start on richer food for me.”

Full of joy at the praise the young man went on, and almost missed the sound of desolate weeping the wind brought to him in snatches. He stopped, and with a hunter’s instinct went after the wailing even before the master could tell him where to go. But the master was as curious as was he, and it was not long until they came to a low stone wall, beyond which lay a pasture with a small herd of sheep gathered down at the fold.

He knew the place again. This was where they had taken the baby, only yesterday. Who the figure huddled at the wall could be was no riddle then either. This must be the mother of the infant whose bones he carried in his bag.

Oddly feeling drawn to the woman, he stepped over the wall and knelt by her side and touched her gently. She flinched, and gasped in shock, perceiving only a black shadow within the dark and the bit of moonlight that filtered through the clouds. He held her and steadied her, and felt her warm body pressed against him.

Suddenly another kind of craving filled him, as he remembered how it had felt to take in the life energies of her child. With a rasping sound in his throat, he flung her down upon her back and covered her, just managing to open his hose in time, and forced her, having his will of her violently and brutally. She whimpered and cried but had too little strength left to her to resist him. 

And then, he did what he had felt the master do. He did not take the power of her heart or her life but the power of their lust and joining. She did not feel pleasure but pain and fear, but the sweeter that felt to him, and kindled his craving even more. He took her another time and a third while she lay half-fainting, and only stopped when the master warned him that he would spend too much of his own strength if he went on. Ordering his pupil to draw back the master surged up within them and overwhelmed the whimpering woman with his powers, killing her without any weapon. 

She shrieked and trashed, and died too slowly for the young man to get through her death swiftly and with only one shock. The master had to withdraw early, having just tasted of her death, because his host writhed upon the ground gasping and retching and shivering, begging the master to desist, he was dying with her.

But of course, the young man did not die, sustained, and strengthened by his master. Dark power almost burning his breath and his veins seemed to run into his heart and revived him swiftly. He could see in the dark even better than before and more clearly and saw the corpse of the woman lie before him almost unchanged.

Thanking the master several times the young man rose to his knees and then his feet, and was told to listen to his body, and see what he felt. Surprised, he realised that the energies he had taken from her during forcing her had eased the way of the energies of her heart and her life as they were taken in, which had made the process much easier and had kept an even more violent reaction at bay. As to the woman’s mind, she had been almost swooning and had only been faintly aware of what was happening to her anymore. That, too, had made it possible for the young man to survive the eating of her life.

This was some interesting knowledge, to be stored in his memory against later need. Now, they had to deal with this corpse. The young woman’s breasts lay heavy beneath the half-open bodice, and suddenly the master became very agitated.

“Milk! Mother’s milk!” he said excitedly. “There is little tribute that is liked better by the Dark God! This is his blessing already, in advance! Milk her breast and put the milk in your flask!”

Grimacing the young man poured the water out of his flask and went at the odd work with a bit of disgust. Though the woman was dead her body was still warm, and since yesterday enough milk had been filling her breasts to gush out now freely and be caught in the leather flask. Had the master eaten her to his fill and taken in her death completely, and all the energies left in her body, there would not have been any milk to take. The master even agreed to that sentiment gravely and said that the Dark God would appreciate their gift the more, since it came to him by true abstinence and therefore was doubly a sacrifice.

After that, they dragged the woman’s body over to the rocky outcrop at the top of the pasture and pushed it down from there, watching it roll down the slope till it came to rest at the barrier of the sheeps’ fold.

“They will simply think that she took her own life in desperation or that she mis-stepped in the dark”, the master said unconcernedly, and they called the raven and the crow to them again and left, well satisfied in several ways, to continue on their way to the cave.

It was ancient, and the rough stone altar hewn out of the rock resembled the one in the cave at the seaside to a surprising extent. The master gave off a feeling of comfort and pleasure, like a man who sits down at the home hearth and puts off his heavy garments to relax at his own fire. 

Carefully and smiling with the feeling of comfort permeating his own heart, the young man heaped up the kindling on the altar and put the coarse cloth with the baby’s bones on top as instructed. Then he lifted his hair, and cut a superficial wound, shaped like a crescent moon, into the skin of his left temple, and then did the same on the right side. It did not even hurt much. Taking the raven into his hands, which fluttered only slightly, and staring into its dull eyes, he slit its throat and caught the blood in the shallow basin cut into the stone.

“Fly to your master with our prayer”, he said to it and laid the black-feathered body on the altar as well.

Then he stood, and bowed to the crude image upon the wall of the cave, almost invisible now for its age, depicting a man with his head cut off but holding it in his hand, his member upright still as a sign of continued life even in death, and the other one at his side, scratched into the rock in the manner of a Sheela-na-gig, an old woman showing her private parts and holding them open with one hand while she swung a sword in the other. After battle, the dead were swallowed up by the Earth, the female principle, and were born of it anew in the otherworld of the dead, an apt picture of eternal life, death, and rebirth. The young man was full of awe and shaken by the profound truth about life he found here. What truth, told by Father Vernon at the castle, could compare with this, ancient lore so old and true no-one knew who had learned first of it? 

The young man felt quietly elated and thought that he saw a dark shine upon everything. But that, of course, was the perception of his master who saw the mothú fields of the place and knew what was happening on the energetic level which he, the young acolyte, did not know of anything yet. 

Calling the crow to him he killed it as well and caught its blood and laid the small corpse beside the other bird’s.

“Fly to your mistress with our prayer”, he murmured, and bowed, following the instructions of the master perfectly. He did this the first time and knew nothing of it yet. But knowledge seemed to lie in the dark fire the master had kindled within his heart as he had strengthened and supported him after the woman’s death. Somehow all he saw here, and did, and said, seemed extremely familiar as if he had done it a hundred and a thousand times before.

It was the mothú of the place, of course, which had been used for these and alike rituals uncounted times before during times immemorial. But as well, it seemed to be the memory of the master, who had not only been a supreme ruler and had wielded his authority harshly when he had had to do it, but who also had been a humble servant of the Dark God and his Mistress, bloody Badb. Somehow, he knew, and felt in his heart, how the presence of the Dark God would feel, and the power of his mistress. Somehow, he felt a hunger for them, a yearning that was different from their craving for nourishment, or the avidity he had felt for the woman’s energies. It was as if he yearned for his father’s hand and his mother’s lap, their voices, and their care. Both were dead, though his elder brother always had looked after him and taught him and cared for him. But then, his elder brother had many other duties to attend to as well and knew nothing of the secrets he had learned lately. He was better, far better equipped than his brother now to rule, and guide his people, and bring to them the supremacy they deserved over these human fools and peasants who knew nothing at all and did not deserve to govern upon this world which could be his and could be the reward of the followers he would gather to himself, worthy of the Dark God and of the Battle Crow.

Thinking of his parents, he suddenly felt a little insecure, and his eyes seemed to darken. Idly he wondered at himself, and asked whether he had thought such thoughts before, or whether it was the first time that they had come to his mind, no matter they felt so familiar and so comfortable?

But then the master chided him and admonished him sharply to stay focused and concentrate on the ritual, and he was back there, his eyes seeing as if by noon, and the fiery yearning for the presence of the God and the Goddess filled his heart and his mind and his soul.

According to the master’s instructions, he poured the mother’s milk into the shallow basin that held the blood of the birds and mixed the liquids with his fingers. Then he stretched out his hands and invoked the God and the Goddess, strange words and incantations coming to his tongue, guided by his master, though he knew that he would remember them the next time he would give sacrifice, understanding their meaning at least in his burning heart.

Sparks and then veritable flames shot from the tips of his fingers and ignited the wood and resin-filled twigs he had heaped upon the altar. A fire roared up, flames red and yellow, and bluish, and they burned so hotly that the cold night was heated as if on a summer’s day. Reaching into the basin he brought up two handfuls of the reddish liquid and sprinkled them generously into the flames, which were not extinguished thanks to the resin but hissed, and danced, and turned dark red as they burned the mother’s milk and the sacrifices of raven and crow and the human baby. 

He sang in exultation, and the master gave him the words for his song, dark words, powerful words, secret words. Reaching into the basin he gave way to the master as he was ordered, and the master drew the druid’s patterns upon his brow and his breast and his hands with the blood and the milk. They should have been pricked in with woad and should have made warrior patterns also upon his shoulders and his cheeks, but they could not let anyone know yet who and what they were, and that they prepared to take command. For now, he could only be painted with the sacred colours, white and red and black, to be sained for his entry into the brotherhood of druids, of the ones who knew secrets no-one else knew, and could do magic no human ever had heard of before, in this world. But he would show them, and they would cower before him!

The sacrifice burned, and the young man sang, his voice guided by his master, and slowly something changed. The world darkened further, or it became brighter at the same time, bright as steel flashing in the fire, bright as eyes burning filled with the madness of battle, bright as blood running from mortal wounds. This was glory, this was knowledge, this was power! 

The sacrifices and the wood were swiftly gone. The fire sank and became glowing embers embedded in dark ash, and the young man let his master come forward once more to dip their fingers into that ash and smear his brow and his breast and his hands with it to add the third row of symbols, and the third sacred colour to the markings he bore this night, black.  
Then the master mixed some of the ash into the remaining liquid, which now turned into a pulp consisting of mother’s milk and crow’s and raven’s blood, and the ash of the sacrifice where the birds and the baby had burned.  
That he smeared upon the wounds he bore at his temples, cover as well as remedy and substance that would let silvery scars form, forever marking him with the double crescent moon. For now, no-one would see by the bangs that fell down at the sides of his face. Later, he would wear a chieftain’s braids and an archdruid’s fillet, and all would see and know what he was.

The master took over and added some more incantations, holding his hands over the rest of the basin’s contents, and they liquified somewhat as the ash dissolved. Power ran between these hands and the altar, and the darkness blazed up ever darker. The crystal stone which held the master’s soul, which he carried with him always, felt warm and then hot, and it felt as if something moved, a tiny crack of a door opening, a breath of cold air into searing heat, a sound of a broken bell into dampening silence. 

A presence formed indeed and coalesced where the basin was, changing the substances there into something else, looking like dark fragrant beer. Power pulsed through the cave and found them, found the young man who moaned loudly with the sensations he felt, and then was told to scoop up and drink what the god had given them.

He obeyed and scooped up the liquid with his hands, and drank, and it was as if he had taken burning uisge beatha into his mouth or living fire. He swallowed and felt a surge of strength and power that was turning his head, making him drunk and at the same as clear-headed as he ever had been. He saw everything in the greatest detail and felt as if he had left his body and had gone far away, towards the cliffs and the sea and its bottom, where mysterious fires burned.

Then all was over, and the cave felt empty as it had been before. The master turned to him and welcomed the young man solemnly into the brotherhood of the draoi and was hailed master and teacher by the young man with the deepest reference. They wiped their hands then on the rock and went to wash in the loch, and shivering a little in the cold of the earliest morning the young dorch-draoi went home to his bed.


End file.
